Monday, June 12, 2017

1880’s, Utah territory: an entire unit of U.S. Calvary soldiers has vanished from between the walls of Fort Drake, a remote site surrounded on all sides by warring Indian tribes. IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING BY TERRY LLOYD VINSON

1880’s, Utah territory: an
entire unit of U.S. Calvary soldiers has vanished from between the walls of
Fort Drake, a remote site surrounded on all sides by warring Indian tribes and
whose lone mission had been to protect the local gold-miners of nearby South
Pass City. A trio of snow-crested mountain ranges away at Fort Lagrange,
Wyoming, golden-boy Lieutenant Drew Barron and three hand-picked subordinates
are tasked with solving the mysterious disappearances, their laborious quest
littered with assorted dangers; roaming marauders, bloodthirsty wolves and a
blizzard of epic proportions. At trek’s end, Fort Drake is found to be deserted
until a trio of unlikely allies crawl forth from hiding just as the frigid
grounds fall under attack yet again, the survivors forced to barricade
themselves within the cramped confines of the post armory. Faced with dwindling
supplies, bone-chilling temperatures and a relentless enemy poised just outside
their rickety safe-haven, Lieutenant Barron and those within his care will soon
discover they have yet to confront the worst that the newly dubbed ‘Fort Dread’ has to offer.

EXCERPT

April 17

A moonless night accentuated the meandering headlights of a moving vehicle
along a winding lakeside road near the city limits of Gainesville, Florida.
"Can't believe, how easy it was to break into that home, Carl," Eddy said to his passenger excitedly. "The owners
were definitely sound sleepers. They hardly resisted when we tied them up in
their bed."

"It's got to be our easiest home invasion yet, Eddy." He pulled
out a flask from his pants' pocket and took a sip of whiskey from it. He then
handed it to his cohort in crime.

"I figure we should get a few thousand bucks for everything. The
jewelry looks expensive."

"Their laptops are high-grade. We should probably get a good price for
them too."

"Look out, Eddy," Carl shouted. The road made a sharp turn to the
left but their vehicle continued straight ahead. The car shook violently as it
sped down a wooded terrain's uneven incline toward a lake.

Eddy, squeezing the steering wheel for dear life, pushed down on the brake
pedal as hard as he could. Nothing happened. "Holy shit." The break
lining obviously ruptured. His head struck the steering wheel, followed by
blood cascading down his forehead.

Carl's body lunged forward as his face slammed into the dashboard. A
cracking sound came from his neck.

They flew by sparsely spaced pine trees, coming within inches of them. The
car's headlights now lit up the water in front of them. Neither of them saw it,
for their unconscious bodies bounced around in the front seat of the car like
rag dolls. It took less than a minute for the car to submerge into the deep
lake. Unless someone saw the vehicle enter the watery grave, no one would
discover these two unhallowed residents.

Something in the back seat emitted a faint, yellow glow as the car sank to
the bottom of the lake.

April 23

Aman who appeared to be in his mid-fifties and moderately
overweight sat behind the steering wheel of a tour bus. He said into a
microphone, "It's me again, Frank Murphy. I wanted to let you know we're
about thirty minutes to our destination, the Gulf of Mexico and Port
Hawk."

Some people on the capacity-filled bus exclaimed enthusiastically,
"Hallelujah." Others commented with less exuberance. Most of the
passengers were couples between fifty and seventy years old.

Frank continued, "The casino ship's shuttle boats will be leaving a
little over an hour once we stop. There'll be time to visit several little
quaint novelty shops along the boardwalk."

The blacktopped two-lane road started at I-75, south of Gainesville. Frank
had been making the ninety-minute casino bus trip for the past ten years. He
knew every bump and curve in the road. There were several other bus trips to
casino ships on the Gulf and Atlantic side of Florida, and to the Indian
casinos. Frank couldn'tfigure out why residents of Florida hadn't voted for casino
gambling at hi jai facilities, dog and horse tracks in Florida. There would be
a tremendous increase in tax revenue for the state. The irony in all of this,
Frank didn't gamble.

"How often have you been on the casino ship?" asked a passenger
sitting behind Frank.

Frank chuckled. "Only once. I got severe sea sickness."

"Was it a rough sea?"

"No. Hardly a ripple. I should've known better, since I get motion
sickness on airplanes and even some elevators. I've been like this since I was
a kid. I couldn't go on merry-go-rounds or any other rides at carnivals."

"What a shame. Not able to enjoy the rides."

"No big thing. I became extremely efficient at those carnival games. I
always walked away with an armful of prizes."

The bus suddenly veered to the right and onto the shoulder of the road, its
tires running over the ribbed warning strips causing a whining sound to alert
drivers their vehicle left the highway. The low mumbling sound of passengers
talking stopped, their attention diverted toward Frank Murphy, who sat erect,
his hands tightly grasping onto the steering wheel.

"Is everything all right?" Panic engulfed the passenger's words
as he waited anxiously for an answer.

"I can't see." Frank cried out as he applied the brakes. Within
seconds, the bus jerked to the right as it headed down a slight embankment
toward a row of pine trees. A moment later, the front of the bus crashed into
them, killing Frank instantly.

Mid-Summer,
1882

Wyoming
Territory

As swirling plumes of smoke began a rapid
descent downward within the room's confined space, the man dug frantically
through the opened drawers of a large oak desk. Over the sound of his own
grunts of desperation, he noted the outer regions of the cabin walls had seen
human screams gradually replaced by decidedly inhuman growls, a rather garish
trend that served to fuel his frenzied search.

"Ma-major! Major Hawkes!" a shrill voice rang
out just as the office door flung open to allow access to a fresh wave of blackish
fog. It was a young private whose name the major was unable to immediately
produce, his face as beet red as his carrot-top shaded noggin. Bug-eyed and
convulsing, the private appeared every ounce the frightened teenager he most
certainly was.

"The men are what, Private? My god, spit it
out, boy! This is certainly no time to develop the stutters!" Hawkes shouted
angrily, instantly regretting the act but utterly powerless to control the
slowly building rage behind it.

"The-they…we're out of…almost
out of ammo, s-sir! W-Watkins, Butler an-and Sergeant Weems…he's-they're g-gone, sir," the private cried
between coughs while crouching to the floor with his sidearm tucked to his
chest, "t-they've
dug 'neath
the south wall and the fi-fires are spreading."

"Well, son, Weems tossing those lamps into the
cabin walls wasn't
the brightest move I've witnessed in terms of combat effectiveness," Hawkes berated,
flinging a handful of assorted forms and paper tablets airborne before giving
the drawer of their origin a similar toss against a nearby wall and thus
shattering it into strips of jagged kindling.

"I'm distressed to announce a rather upsetting
lack of ammunition myself."

"Looks as though we'll have to adapt to
survive then, boy, now doesn't it?" he continued, stepping over to retrieve a sheathed sword from the hook
attaching it to a nearby bookcase, "many a red savage have I sliced into submission
with this trusty carbon-steel blade."

"I-it ain't the injuns that took 'em, s-sir."

Falling to one knee directly in front of his
whimpering subordinate, the senior officer reached over with both hands and
obtained a firm grip atop trembling shoulders.

"Man or beast, Private? Private Sullivan
isn't
it?"

The young man nodded feverishly.

"Well, man or beast, Sullivan, the blade shows
no prejudice, nor does its user."

"How c-can this be, sir? I mean, I ain't never s-seen the
likes."

"Quiet, private," the major commanded sternly, tilting his head
slightly to the right.

Gradually engulfed in a swirling fog despite
the close proximity to the hardwood flooring, man and man-boy sat wordlessly,
sharing a moment in stark, unrelenting terror that showed no favoritism in
terms of rank or combat experience. The brief respite, though mere seconds in
duration, was sufficient to note all human cries outside the cabin walls had
halted in favor of a sudden barrage of blood-curdling howls—canine shrieks
delivered in almost perfect unison that fell eerily silent in the same abrupt
manner.

"Oh, sh-sheeeeet, s-sir. What a-are w-we
gon-gonna do?" the private had whispered between muffled coughs as he'd tucked the back of a
hand against his lips in a fruitless attempt to mute.

After coughing into the crock of his bare
elbow, Major Henry 'The Hammer' Hawkes, renowned as much for his excessively dour demeanor as a
battlefield fearlessness that had overseen countless victories, stood stiffly
with his trusty blade held defensively at chest level.

"Private Sullivan, on your way in, did you
secure the front door to this cabin?"

The young man's bottom lip quivered uncontrollably even as
his brow creased in thought. Tears streamed down both freckled cheeks as he
strained mightily for the correct response.

"I'm n-not...su-sure, sir. I was, well, kinda…pa-panicked," he finally blurted,
staring down at the pistol in his left hand as if it were some strange,
unrecognizable artifact, "I t-think I booted her shut, but the roof is…burn-on
fire, sir. We can't
stay. Once the sergeant and the lamps exploded like they did, I, um…"

The major bristled at the mere mention.

"Understood, Sullivan. Damn Weems and his panic
attacks. Idiot must've decided dying by fire would be preferable to the alternative you and
I now face. Dwelling upon it at this moment, the sergeant might well have had something
there."

From the front room came the unmistakable sound
of shattered glass, followed by a series of shuffling sounds and a chorus of
low, guttural growls.

"Ah, thick oaken doors mean little when there
are flimsy plate windows present," Hawkes replied at full volume, stepping past
the cowering man-child and fronting the office door in a defensive side-pose. "Private, I have a
dreadful feeling the subject of a proper escape route is going to be woefully
moot any moment now."

"Sir?" the private sobbed as a flurry of frenzied
scratching and thumping ensued from the other side of the door from which the
words 'Officer
in Charge-Captain Lance Boles'had been so expertly etched.

"You need to procure a weapon, Private," Hawkes remarked
calmly, having casually loosened the top two buttons of his dark blue frock, "any weapon will do."

Utterly speechless with fear, the private
checked the chambers of his pistol with shaky hands and found two bullets still
tucked neatly inside. He re-secured the cylinder just as the lower portion of
the door fractured, birthing a tight-lipped grin of begrudging respect from his
commanding officer.

"Take a moment to pray to your maker, son," he announced as the
door creased dramatically at the center, "as I am about to do."

As to comply with a final verbal order, the
young private briefly bowed his head before joining his superior in watching
their surviving barricade being systematically pulled apart from the bottom up.
Aiming the pistol at the fast-spreading chasm and overcome by an abrupt wave of
calm, his gun-hand no longer shook.

Just as the door folded in on itself and a
shapeless, grayish blur shot forth from the ample space provided, the two men,
separated by over three decades in age and a world apart in rank, spat out
almost precisely the same shrill, panic-stricken curse.